The man who spent a year hiding in smoke finally steps into the light. But first, he has to sit across from the woman who put him there — and tell her why he's not coming back.
The apartment smells like citrus and sleep and someone who's been breathing against your chest for the last six hours.
That shouldn't be remarkable. People sleep next to people all the time. But you spent a year on a rooftop that smelled like tar and concrete and the slow accumulation of every bad decision you ever made, and the distance between that and this — her shampoo, her candle, the warmth of a room someone actually lives in — is the kind of distance you measure in who you used to be...
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